


The Upper Hand

by Barb G (troutkitty)



Category: White Collar
Genre: Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-01
Updated: 2010-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-24 13:59:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troutkitty/pseuds/Barb%20G
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Getting the upper hand on Neal is not as easy as it looks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Upper Hand

**Author's Note:**

> devohoneybee not only gave amazing real time beta, she also provided all the cheerleading and hand holding necessary. And daemonluna continues to rock my world.

Neal’s phone stopped working on his perimeter loop. He checked it twice, even banged it on his palm once as though that would help the sensitive equipment be any more sensitive, but the NO SIGNAL message didn’t go away.

Others around him still had their phones glued to their ears. They barely even paused before the throng of people separated around him as he stood in the middle of the sidewalk. He got a few dirty glances back, which he countered out of instinct with a grin, but that didn’t help the growing unease.

He returned back to June’s. The brilliant blue sky, the slight breeze that brought fresh air down to the valley between the buildings and the pretty girl who worked at the coffee shop and lived within his two-mile radius suddenly meant nothing. Something felt off.

He needed to call Peter. The quickest path home had two sets of phone booths just off it, but he was a quarter mile back to the house and he could do it in minutes. Nothing seriously wrong could happen in a few minutes, he tried to tell himself. His discomfort over the booths had nothing to do with the horribly familiar smell of metal and urine and desperation that came with them. Despite the early hour, hot prickles crossed the small of Neal’s back and he hurried a bit more.

His concerns, oh, who was he kidding, his worry ended when he turned the last corner to June’s massive house. Peter’s car was parked out front at a bad angle. Peter must have been trying to call him and drove over. Neal wondered how long his phone had stopped before he noticed it. If Peter was here, regardless of what was wrong enough to have him come for him on a Sunday, everything would work out.

Neal let himself in, calling Peter’s name. His voice echoed in great empty hall of an entrance way. That wasn’t good. June herself stepped half out of the formal dining room off the great hall, and though she smiled when she beckoned him, that hot, prickling sensation returned across Neal's back even in the air conditioning.

He swallowed the question of if something was wrong down. June returned into the dining room and Neal, ignoring the screams of intuition, followed her.

It wasn’t Peter.

June didn’t stop smiling, and even to him, it appeared genuine. It probably wasn’t the first time in her life an unsavory individual showed up at her door step and forced his way inside under the guise of politeness. The man sitting at the head of the table wore a neat, non-fed suit. The bone china tea cup in his hand hit one of the long stray sunbeams in the room and looked transparent. He held the tea cup with his left hand, and didn’t move his right, which was hidden under the fold of his jacket.

In late May. Neal didn’t stare at the lump in the man’s hand. Neither did June. She didn’t even glance to it to give herself away. This was nothing, her body language said. Nothing at all was happening here. “Your friend, Damien arrived shortly after you left,” June said, her voice light. He loved her for her bravery, and wanted to give her some sign that all of this would be over soon, but didn’t dare.

“Of course, Damien,” Neal said, keeping up the charade.

Damien put down the tea cup and pushed his chair back. Neither Neal nor June flinched as Damien clearly expected them to. Instead, he put on a smile of his own. He even offered his hand to Neal -- his left hand, of course, even though the huge chunky watch on the wrist offered proved he was right handed. Neal shook with the man. The grip could have crushed bones if Damien pressed a second longer. Neal’s smile didn’t waver.

“Now that I’m back, I’m sure you’ve got other business to attend too,” Neal told June, for the first time putting weight behind the words he didn’t care if Damien heard. “I’m sure whatever Damien and I have to discuss won’t involve you.”

June froze. She glanced to Damien.

Damien smoothed the coat over his arm, though Neal saw nary a wrinkle. “I have no problem with that,” Damien said. “As long as you realize the severity of the situation.”

“Oh, I realize,” Neal said. He nodded to June, flashing her a quick smile he didn’t have an ounce of confidence in, and watched her walk out of the room like a queen. If his cell phone was being blocked, Neal doubted that the house phone would be working either, but June had resources he hoped this Damien didn’t know about.

When she’d gone, Neal turned back to the gunman. “Who do you work for?"

“That is not the issue here.” Damien pulled out one of the long backed chairs from the table. He took out a knife the length of his forearm, and Neal, despite himself, swallowed. Proof of life was more than just a Russell Crowe movie. “We have a small problem to attend to, and then we’ll be off.”

Neal didn’t move. The knife was so barbaric, so inelegant. Also, the hot prickles across his back turned to cold sweat. He doubted Damien would let him shower before they went wherever they were going. Damien put down his jacket, which made a metallic clunk as it hit, and switched the knife to his right hand. “Your leg, please.”

Neal almost sighed in relief. The knife could cut off soft tissue easy enough -- an ear, for example -- but he’d have to work at bone. It could also cut through an ankle bracelet. He still didn't move.

“Do I need to call June back?” Damien asked, his voice blank. “Or after I shoot you both, then track down that beautiful granddaughter of hers?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Neal said, his own voice just as blank. He so disliked this aspect of the criminal lifestyle. It wasn’t all efficiently planned and plotted out heists, giving it to insurance companies that cleared billions of dollars worth of profit every quarter.

He crossed the two paces between him and the chair Damien had pulled out and put the foot with the ankle on over the dark wood of the seat. At least the blood would be easy to clean if the housekeeper got to it soon enough.

“You cut that, the feds are going to be all over this house in seconds.” Neal felt the need to point it out even if both of them knew it already.

“Probably,” Damien agreed. “It’s a good thing I have an exit strategy.”

Neal expected nothing less. “Mind the sock,” he said. He couldn’t bear the thought of being kidnapped with a nick in the fabric. That would be cruel.

Damien ignored him, but slid the knife down between the anklet and Neal with a confidence that didn’t help Neal’s already massive discomfort. He could make for the gun on the table, deliberately just out of his reach, but that would mean rushing Damien with the knife between them. The last thing Neal wanted to feel that morning was being gutted like a fish.

So he remained still. The cuff split and fell down around Neal’s foot. Damien paused after he made the cut and reversed the knife. He ran it up Neal’s pant leg so that the metal of the blade touched Neal’s skin. Both of them, quite audibly, sucked in their breath.

This was going to be bad.

*

A long black car waited for them, double parked beside Peter’s already illegally parked vehicle. There was never any parking enforcement around when you needed it, Neal found himself thinking, though he didn’t want another innocent caught up in this. The grip on his arm was bad enough, but the press of metal against his ribcage seemed overkill. He wasn’t going to try anything while June was still in the picture.

The driver kept his eyes forward. Damien pushed Neal into the passenger seat first, but rather than falling into it, Neal caught his balance and twisted so that he faced the door. The black metal of the barrel poked free out of Damien's jacket. Neal stared up it. Despite himself, he put his hands up and slid over to the far end of the seat as directed. This door had no locking mechanism on the inside, but he didn’t fool himself for a second to think that meant he could just open it and run. Damien slid in beside him, the gun not shifting away from him for a second. The car started moving before Damien could fully close the door.

“Get down,” Damien said.

“What?” Neal asked.

Damien lifted the gun to strike. Getting pistol whipped was only slightly worse than getting shot. Neal lifted his arms higher and ducked his head. “I don’t know what you want."

 

“Get down on the floor, you idiot. Head down. Don’t even think about moving.”

That Neal could do. He slid down to the well behind the driver, not that there was that much space down there, and the driver passed back a heavy blanket the exact colour of the interior. “Make a sound and I won’t care where exactly I shoot you.”

Neal wasn’t stupid enough to answer. This morning didn’t start out with him having to contemplate if a kill shot was better or worse than a shot that lingered, either.

Damien and the driver switched cars at least four times, each time in an alley or parking structure that didn’t look like it had a camera. So they weren’t stupid. Smart criminals that didn’t mind shedding blood were quite possibly the worst kind of criminals. Of course, Damien hadn’t actually hurt Neal yet, and if he popped his head up from under the blanket he might call Damien's bluff, but Neal doubted it. He learned the hard way in prison what Damien’s particular suck of breath meant when the knife had touched Neal’s skin.

Still, Neal didn’t panic. He’d fought off threats before. A blow to the throat killed off even the most amorous bull and he knew that despite all Damien’s efforts, Peter would be able to sort through whatever camera feed he needed to trace their path. It would take days, Neal knew, but Peter would do it. He just had to survive until then.

They drove across bridges. Neal tried keeping track in his head until he realized they were doubling back. If they went through any tolls, they had a pass. It seemed they drove around for hours. Despite the air conditioning blasting, the air under the blanket turned soupy.

The car went over two sets of metal grating, then down a long angle. They were in an underground garage. Neal braced himself. Switching cars seemed to involve a lot of threats and more getting poked with the gun. This time when the vehicle stopped, the driver didn’t immediately jump out and get the next car ready for the transfer.

He almost felt relieved when he felt the two men get out of the car. This one was a coupe, and the seats didn’t have a lot of space in the back. He’d felt positively squashed. “All right. Out you come,” Damien called.

Neal pulled the blanket off himself. His eyes were accustomed to the darkness, at least, but there was nothing in the underground parking spaces to see. Well, besides the high end, late model BMWs and Mercedes in three of the four stalls. The Sunfire they’d been driving looked positively chagrined to be among them.

“Get rid of the car,” Damien told the driver. Neal hoped that whomever they stole the car from would get a hefty settlement from their insurance company, but he doubted it. The driver nodded and hopped back into the car. It reversed carefully and disappeared into traffic.

Neal turned back to Damien. “Now what?”

Damien shrugged. He’d given up the pretense of the jacket. “Now you meet the boss.”

Neal relaxed. Well, if that was all this was about, he was good. He was a commodity, and commodities weren't unnecessarily damaged. He'd just work on whatever they needed stolen, forged or altered, one more criminal among criminals. When he could get word out to Peter, he would. He straightened his suit, luckily not crumpled despite the abuse it had suffered, and Damien gave him the time to do so. He ran his fingers through his hair to dissipate some of the static electricity. That was less successful than the suit, but it would have to do. "Lead on," he said.

Damien gave him a tight smile. "After you. I insist."

At least Neal didn't get jabbed again.

*

The boss's house was too big to be in Manhattan, that was clear. They came up from the garage and the stink of poorly used new money was everywhere, from the bold burgundy paint job to the gold accents of the carpet runners on the dark wood floors. Neal only caught a glimpse of the kitchen on the way past, but the granite counter tops and stainless steel appliances might as well have had the builder's plastic still protecting them.

The burgundy colour turned to forest green up the stairs, stabbing Neal's eyes in the process. The art on the walls had obviously been picked to match the decor and not the other way around. Original French masterpieces and Ikea art hung side-by-side. He had to look away.

"In here," Damien said, motioning with the gun to the door approaching on the left. Without the gun on him, Neil knew he could jump over the cat walk, and if he didn't break anything on the fall, make it to the door if he wasn't shot in the back. That last part put his life in the hands of fate and he never took a chance on that. At least the doorknob wasn't a huge crystal.

The study had been done up by a designer who had never actually seen a study, Neal decided. The huge heavy desk dominated the entire room, and yet didn't seem to have a purpose. The books in the bookcases around the walls had bars used to protect first editions, but the books themselves seemed to be chosen by the colour of their bindings rather than their actual content. Unless bad guys who went to extraordinary lengths to kidnap known forgers who had strong links to the FBI actually did have a particular thirst for bound torte law journals from 1943 to 1977, liking them enough to keep them behind bars.

The man behind the desk seemed to take up most of it, despite the desk's bulk. Caucasian, mid-forties was Neal's first impression. Ex-football player, was Neal's second. He wasn't fat, but still took up the same amount of space as an apartment-sized fridge. When he stood, he did so with surprising agility. On a team and yet wasn't seriously injured. Interesting.

"You must be Neal Caffrey," the man said, extending a hand the size of a baseball glove. Neal needed Damien's prodding before he offered his own, and even then he couldn't hide the reluctance.

"I must," Neal said, hiding his discomfort with a smile. "And you are?"

"Needing your services," the man said, smoothly. His sandy hair was receding, but not enough to start the elaborate comb-over Neal knew was coming. He was glib, though. Neal had to give him that.

"I have many services," Neal said. He could dance blindfolded on the line between innuendo and incrimination.

"You do," the man said, bowing his head slightly. So he had done his homework enough to recognize Neal's talents. Neal, despite himself, felt a little flattered. "And although I'd like to avail myself of all of them, you have one in particular talent that I need right now."

"Which one is that?" Neal asked.

"Your relationship with Peter Burke."

Neal's smile dropped. He hadn't been expecting that. He covered it by turning the rest of his face hard. "And what could you possibly want with that?" he asked. He motioned down to his bare ankle, feeling naked without the transmitter. "He was a better alternative than prison."

The man actually tsked him like he would have a small child. "Come, now, Neal. Let's not insult us both. You've developed a relationship with the man..."

"It's called Stockholm Syndrome," Neal snapped. He reined back on all the spite he wanted to put in the words to really sell it.

"...And for some reason, the man trusts a lying, cheating thief like yourself," the man continued as though Neal hadn't just interrupted him.

"It's called being gullible," Neal finished, not even trying. There wasn't any point, but he had to give it a go.

"So, do we have an understanding?" the big man asked, crossing his arms over his chest. Bones cracked as he did so and the suit he wore, though impeccably tailored, strained.

"You haven't even told me what you want me to understand," Neal said. Damien jabbed him again, and he'd had enough. "Tell him to stop that. If you're going to shoot me, you can do it just as easily from three feet away."

Damien shoved the gun up against one of Neal's lower ribs, hard enough that Neal could feel the capillaries burst. Damien kept pushing. The pain doubled, then doubled again. Neal didn't make a sound. If anything, he leaned harder against the gun against every instinct he had. He couldn't stop his eyes watering.

"Enough," the big man said. "Neal is right. Back away, Damien. I don't believe I am in any immediate danger from the young man."

Damien made a sound in the back of his throat, but obeyed. Neal turned back to the big man, not letting the relief show. "So let's pretend that Peter and I have a good working relationship despite the fact that he keeps me chained around a tree like a dog when he's not using me and takes all the credit from me when he is. What power do you think that gives me over him?"

The big man smiled. "Oh, I'm sure he only trusts you to a point. I'm only going to trust you to a point, even after I bring you around to my way of thinking. But to that point is all I need."

Neal didn't embarrass himself by protesting that that wasn't going to happen. He remembered the long knife in Damien's hand and felt cold again. "I'm not going back to prison," he said, keeping his voice level. It was easy enough to use the fear of hurting Peter to sell the fear of going back, though he was truly afraid of that, too.

The big man put his hand on Neal's shoulder. He would have preferred the gun grinding against his bones. "You won't go back to prison. I'll set you up with enough to live comfortably for the rest of your life in a country that doesn't have an extradition treaty. You can live on a beach somewhere."

Neal kept his face impassive. His net worth, if he called everything due, could buy that country before he moved to it. That wasn't the issue. And the thought of being on a beach away from everything pulsing and alive would almost be worse than prison. But he had to play the hand dealt. "You can do that?" he asked.

"I can. But if you think I will believe you just turning on Burke so quickly, you're sadly mistaken."

Neil glanced back to Damien, who stood sulking at the door. "Does that mean Damien and I are going to spend some quality time together?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so," the big man said, and sounded honestly regretful. "I would really hate to damage you in any way that will hinder your amazing talents, but you have to believe that I am being serious."

"I believe it." Neal did. He really, really did. He didn't flex his hands though he dearly wanted to. He wouldn't give Damien any hint as to where to start if he didn't already know. "I would really like to avoid the unpleasantness."

"I know you would," the big man said. "But I have to trust that you believe that if you betray me, I can find you again and really hurt you. Do you understand my point of view?"

"Yes."

The big man tightened his grip on Neal's shoulder for a second and then let him go. "See? This is why I like working with professionals."

Neal had to try one more time. "You can't think this is going to work," he said. "You've cut the anklet. That's a violation of the deal right there. If I go strolling back to Peter, he's going to have to arrest me. And June, she's not going to just keep her mouth shut. You invaded her space. She's going to tell Peter exactly what happened. You can't just let me go and not have Burke lock me up."

The big man smiled. "But I'm not just going to let you go. You're going to escape, of course, using those skills of yours, but not before some random heavy roughs you up a bit. You know it's all about the details when you're selling a con."

Neal didn't look back at Damien, even as he felt his shoulders knot. "But of course they wouldn't have damaged anything vital." His hands throbbed.

"Not this time. They were amateurish enough to let you escape, after all."

Neal swallowed. "And if I say still say no?"

"We both know that's not going to happen."

Neal felt the corners of his mouth quirk. Whether Neal was still going to go along with the big man's plans didn't matter. He would say yes to anything, and they both knew it.

Damien opened the door for him. "Shall we?" he asked, sarcasm dripping from the polite phrase.

Neal straightened his cuffs.

*

Peter didn't realize his car had been stolen until after he got the call that the cuff had been compromised. He called Neal's cellphone, a half dozen times, but got the same message that the cell phone user was out of range. He didn't think Neal could be so stupid, which only meant that something was seriously wrong. The cab he flagged down got him to the office, and he tried Neal's cell the whole way.

Jones had June in one of the interview rooms. Peter took a second to study the situation through the one-way mirror. June had a cup of something in her hand, and her great fur coat around her shoulders despite the heat of the day. Neal's anklet lay flat on the table in front of her. It hadn't been sawed through. That was good, less likely the kid had gotten hurt its removal.

Peter knocked on the door "And you're sure he had a gun," Jones asked, gently. Peter didn't have to tell him that June had no love of authority. She must really care for Neal in her own way if she had allowed herself to be taken down to the federal building.

"Yes," June said.

"But you never saw it," Jones asked, again, gently. "You understand, ma'am, it's important that we know Neal didn't leave on his own accord."

"He didn't leave on his own accord," June said, her voice cold. She looked up, meeting Jones' eyes, and Jones took a step back. There was a steel edge to the lady in front of them, and Jones had overstepped.

Peter took over. "Of course he didn't go willingly. But what happened, June?"

She exhaled and put the mug down on the table. Her face was expertly made up, but there was no hiding the knotted knuckles that showed her true age. "That boy saved my life," she said. In a lesser person, the words would have been theatrical, but not from June. "That man would have shot me dead without a second thought. Neal knew it as well as I did. You need to find him. Do you hear me?"

"We'll do our best," Peter said, but then saw the look of disgust cross June's face. He changed tactics. "I'll do my best," he said, instead. That mollified her, somewhat. "Did you notice anything about him, June? Anything unusual about the house for the past couple weeks? Anything at all?"

She put her hand to her face. Turn off the video camera," she said, her voice muffled.

Jones glanced at Peter. Peter nodded. Jones motioned for it to be done. "And the audible recordings," she said.

Jones looked to Peter again. June didn't miss a trick. Peter nodded again, and Jones made the same cut across his throat. "Is there anything else recording this conversation?" June asked.

"No ma'am," Peter said. "You have my word on that."

"Good." She looked up at Peter, once again an ice queen. "I have security tapes. But anything not directly involved with your investigation of Neal's disappearance has complete immunity. And I want that on paper or those tapes do not exist."

"Done," Peter said, nodding to Jones, who stood up. He'd have the paperwork done the quickest. "Thank you, June. You don't know how much this could help."

June's mouth twitched. "Until the paperwork is signed, I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about, young man."

*

Peter spent the night pouring the tapes, both from June and from various red light cameras, atms and apartment building security. They'd found the black Cadillac almost immediately, stolen like his car had been. Anger that his vehicle had probably just been used to to lower Neal's defenses to allow him to walk into the trap set Peter on a low burn. Elizabeth brought him supper, and stayed to catch up on her own paperwork in order to keep him company, but eventually she'd gone home and the team kept going. The caddie had been switched out for a red Lincoln, the Lincoln for a late model Ford Escape, but after that they'd lost the trail. June's tapes showed a whole lot of nothing from five different cameras around the property. They'd just found a flash of a black car matching the Caddie's description in one of the rear cameras and were scrolling to the same time stamp on the front cameras, when Peter got a call from security.

"Burke," he said, still scrolling through the tape.

"We have him," the voice on the other line said. Peter snapped his fingers rapidly. Jones had the fastest reflexes, of course, and turned to him. "Show me the front desk," he said.

Jones dialed into the live feed. It was Neal, of that Peter was certain. But a rumpled Neal that had been through a thrasher or two. Even through the grainy picture, Peter detected the deep bruises on his face. "Did you call an ambulance?"

"No, sir. Caffrey wouldn't let us."

"Screw that. Call one, ASAP. I'll be right down."

"Yes, sir," the man said. Peter slammed his phone shut and took the stairs down rather than wait for the elevator.

Neal had sat down in the meantime in one of the hard benches before the security gate. He had his jacket off, something Peter had never seen before, and his white shirt was no longer impeccable. His nose looked swollen, if not broken, and the one who'd beaten him had obviously been right handed. Most of the damage was done to his left side. Despite the injury, he sat primly and at attention as always. He stood when he saw Peter burst out of the stairwell.

"I know this looks bad--" Neal began, but Peter shut him with a glance.

"Sit down, Neal. Someone needs to check you out to make sure there aren't any internal injuries." Up close, Neal looked even worse. Bruises around his throat were decidedly fingerprint shaped. His jaw looked swollen, and he still hadn't moved the jacket from over his wrist. Peter took the jacket from him. Neal didn't want to let it go, but when he tried to grab the soft wool as Peter pulled it out of his grip, he swore and let go.

His wrist was puffy. Not his hand, thank God, Peter thought, not sure why that mattered so much. He only needed Neal for his brains, but the idea of someone damaging Neal's long fingers filled him with white hot rage that went well beyond professional interest. "Get me a god damn ice pack," Peter snapped at one of the security guards who had gathered around ghoulishly. "Hell, get me all the ice packs we have in the building."

Two men turned from the pack to obey. That would have to do for now. "Don't worry," Neal said, and tried to flash a smile. It was less than a successful effort, but Peter didn't let it show how pitiful the attempt was. He'd give Neal some pride back. "You should see the other guy."

"What, he's even worse than this?" Peter asked, not seeing how that was possible.

"Worse than that," Neal said. He flashed another smile, and that one felt more genuine. "He tore a seam of his jacket, and not in an easy place to fix let me tell you."

"Put your head back, Neal," Peter said.

Neal did so, even as he protested that he didn't in fact need to. "Stop the building from spinning, would you, Peter? It's making my headache worse."

"I'll get right on that, just as soon as the ambulance gets here," Peter said. "Don't fall asleep on me, Neal."

"I wish," Neal said, with a lazy smile on his head, and then his eyes flew open. He looked at Peter, hot flush building where only grey skin had been, but Peter just patted him on the non-injured hand.

"Stay with me."

Neal put his head back, but kept his body a little tighter than it had been a moment ago. "Will do."

Ice came, finally. The security guards hadn't even mashed the chemicals around. Peter did it a bit more aggressively than recommended, but luckily the plastic bag didn't tear and shower them both with who knew what. Peter put the bag down, gently, over Neal's wrist, and Neal winced. "Does it feel broken to you?"

"How would I know what a broken wrist feels like?" Peter asked, mashing another bag this one more carefully. He gave it to Neal's good hand, who brought it up obediently to the mash-up the left side of his face was.

"Ow," Neal said. "Though I suppose that is an understatement."

"I'm not going to tell you not to talk," Peter said. He didn't undo Neal's shirt to check for more bruising, though he dearly wanted to. Too many people milled about. He'd wait for the ambulance. "But if you are going to waste your breath, you can at least tell me what happened."

"I got sloppy," Neal said. "They were waiting for me at June's." His eyes opened again. "June, is she--"

"She's fine," Peter said, again patting him on the hand. "We brought her in, but she's fine. Worried over you, of course."

Neal slumped a bit farther down on the bench. "Good." He winced, and reapplied the ice pack further down his face. "I got taken," he said. "I don't know where. It could have been Jersey, it could have been one of the boroughs. I tried to keep track of the bridges, but they doubled back so many times I couldn't be sure."

"And then?" Peter asked.

Neal made a motion with hand. Condensation that had formed on the ice pack flew off. "Then I spent the night playing stunt-double to a punching bag. What can I say?"

"What did they want?" Peter asked.

Neal sat up, even if he winced to do so. So there had to be some damage to his belly. Peter was about to throw Neal's privacy to the wind and undo the shirt when he heard the wail of sirens in the distance. About bloody time. Neal looked him dead in the eye, even as the bruise began to swell his left eye shut. "What they always want," he said, his voice just as light as it had been. But that didn't stop the sharp as flint look Neal gave him. "A pretty bauble here, a copy of something rare there, you know how the criminal underbelly works."

Neal moved his bad wrist to his stomach, winced, and looked at Peter again. His whole body leaned towards him, as though he could make Peter understand what he was trying to say through sheer force alone. Neal didn't have a lot of sheer force to spare at the moment. "Yeah," Peter said, keeping his own voice light. "Yeah, I know how the underbelly works, all right."

The EMTs took one look at Neal and started unbuckling the stretcher. "I can walk," Neal protested, standing to prove it, but swooned. Peter caught him before he fell. If he split his head on the marble floor, it would serve the fool right. Almost. Neal protested again as they sat him down on the stretcher, and even more as they buckled him in, but after that he was safely restrained.

"Watch out for his wrist," Peter told them. "And check him out. There could be internal bleeding."

The blond woman nodded. "Are you riding along with him?" she asked, once she'd strapped Neal's head down. She was probably lucky Neal didn't have the coordination to bite her.

"No!" Neal protested.

No? Peter looked to Neal, more shocked than he should have been. His eyes were still bright. "He's just my handler."

The woman shrugged, obviously it was no business of hers. He looked back down to Neal. He didn't quite get it yet. Even restrained, Neal tried to touch his stomach again, all while staring at Peter. What the hell? Could they have...bugged Neal? Made him swallow something? He pointed to his mouth, making an over exaggerated swallowing motion, and Neal sagged in relief. He nodded as much as he could with his head strapped into the cervical collar they'd forced on him.

"All right, then," Peter said. "I'm going to finish up here and make my way to the hospital."

"Take your time," Neal said. They wheeled him away.

Peter waited for him to be out of ear shot before calling up to Jones. "I'm going to need a pen and a pad of paper," he said. "And a ride to the hospital once you're down here." He'd get his car out of the impound lot, eventually, but not on a Sunday.  
The EMT lady put an IV into Neal's arm and the bad one too boot, but he forgave her everything when the rush of painkillers hit his system. Painkillers, such a beautiful word. He smiled at her, wondering if it was possible that she could live in his two mile radius, too, but the smile shifted muscles on his face that didn't really feel attached to the bone beneath and he didn't want his face to slide off.

He felt along the edges of his teeth, just grateful that none of them felt loose. Reconstructive dental surgery wasn't fun. He felt tugging and looked up to see the male EMT, black and bald, unbuttoning his shirt. Neal wondered where he lived, too. He told them both that he didn't know either one of them personally but he was sure he loved them both, and they just smiled and thanked him for his interest.

The doctor in the emergency room felt around his belly and despite the morphine in his system Neal wanted to curl around the pain. Nothing strapped him down in the bed, of course, but he forced himself to lie still. By the time Peter reached his private room -- and how he got a private room, Neal would never know, it wasn't like he had insurance or anything -- Neal had been and gone to X-Ray. The bug showed up, crystal clear, but the official story was he'd been rolled. Neal convinced the doctor that it was a rare coin he'd swallowed instead of having it stolen. The doctor looked at him strangely, but gave him a pair of latex gloves. Neal didn't want to think about them.

June arrived first. That was good. He was glad she was all right. She looked exhausted and wore the same clothes as she had the day before. Every time she tried to talk about what had happened that morning, he changed the subject. He didn't want to bring her any further into this than she had to. They'd let him go, but weren't done with him yet. After the second time, June got it and spent the rest of the time talking about her garden. Neal nodded along, and didn't like it when the nurse kept popping in to check to see if he wasn't dead from the concussion yet.

By the time Peter arrived, it was almost dusk. He'd been up all night, too. Damien had taken his own sweet time. The beating was just for show but he'd lingered over it. Sometimes when Damien came back into the basement, Neal had smelled semen. He hoped the man had at least washed his hands before smacking him around again. That just wasn't hygienic.

The nurse, a sweet older lady despite her inability to just let him close his eyes and sleep for ten minutes, popped in to say goodbye just as she was going off shift. Neal had just managed to drift off again when Peter arrived. Peter smiled to the nurse, no doubt taking a cue or two from Neal, but it was still very much a fed-smile to an outsider. Neal would have to work on that.

He placed the legal pad and pen, carefully, on Neal's lap. On the first page, Peter had written I know about the bug. He took out the X-Ray. "What's the circle?" he demanded.

"A coin," Neal said, going through the motions, too. It felt good, as much as it hurt to talk. Peter understood. It could just have been the morphine in Neal's system, but he'd never actually fallen in love with a man's upper lip before.

"I can see that," Peter said. "What kind of coin is it, Neal?"

"A...rare one," Neal allowed. He picked up the pen with his left hand and wrote good. He wasn't naturally ambidextrous, but was glad he'd taken the time to learn.

"I thought we had a deal, Caffrey. This can seriously jeopardize your release. You do know that."

"It was Sunday," Neal protested. "And it was my coin."

"How yours was yours?" Peter asked. He picked up the pad and wrote What did they want?

Neal shrugged, and winced. That was stupid. "Possession is nine points of the law."

"There are hundreds of points to the law," Peter snapped. Oh, he really sounded angry. Or was that worry, masquerading as anger? Despite the pain, a warm spot independent of the morphine spread across Neal's belly, right under the worst of the pain.

Peter carefully put the pad down again and Neal scrawled they didn't tell me the end game. He paused a second and added yet. He underlined that twice and hoped the bug wasn't sensitive enough to pick up the pen scratches. He covered it by shifting in the bed and the plastic under the sheets crackled. "I know that now. Look, do you want me to go back and tell the owner to beat me up all over again? Because I will."

Peter touched the back of his hand again, softly, and kept his fingers there. Neal looked up at him, hungrily. Peter just squeezed his hand. Focusing his eyes continually on Peter's face was hard work, but Neal did it. His stomach twisted in interesting if utterly entangling ways. "You're just lucky they didn't just cut you open and take it out. They could have, you know."

Neal winced. "They still might." He held up his hand, and motioned for Peter to come closer. Peter did so, puzzled, but didn't stop Neal from lifting up his jacket and taking out his phone. Peter frowned, but Neal frowned back. He needed it more. He hid it under the blankets in case another well-meaning nurse tried to save him from his own poor choices.

Peter shrugged, giving it over. He left soon after. It wouldn't have seemed right if he'd spent the night with Neal, not if they were trying to sell this whole story, but Neal almost asked him to stay. Peter bumped into the new nurse, on the way out. Neal heard him apologize to someone, at least, and then his door opened and closed again.

Neal sat up, heart pounding, but Peter had taken the notepad with him. Neal didn't know why, maybe it was how precious office supplies were at the bureau, but for whatever reason it was, he was glad for it. Damien himself came into the room, dressed in green scrubs. He wore a hearing aide in his ear, an obvious pink colored slug from a by-gone era that would have caused anyone who looked at it to immediately look away. Neal knew with a sinking feeling that Damien had probably heard every word.

"You didn't tell him," Damien said, coming to the bedside.

Neal winced again and sat back. "Did you think I would?" he asked.

"Yes, of course I thought you would," Damien said. "Do you think I'm an idiot? That coin story was quick thinking on your part."

"You were told not to hit me in the stomach," Neal snapped. "They wouldn't have needed to take an X-Ray if you'd been able to control yourself."

Damien smiled, and put his hand on Neal's ankle. He squeezed, and Neal just knew he was wondering what it would be like to break the bone. He'd come too close with Neal's wrist, and had just barely stopped himself from doing serious harm. Neal's whole arm throbbed at the memory. "You get me worked up," Damien confessed, and his fingers trailed their way up Neal's calf. Revulsion followed.

"Take your hand off me," Neal said.

"Oh, Neal. You'll only feel embarrassed when I don't, and you shouldn't feel worse than you already do."

Neal tensed. "Get your hand off me this second or I'll make you pay in ways you never thought possible."

Damien drew in his breath to laugh, but then got caught up in Neal's stare. Neal had been quite a catch in prison, of course. The bulls had warned him with a laugh about the showers and the less than patrolled common areas. Neal recognized the signs, and destroyed his would-be attackers one by one. He arranged privileges to be stripped, commissary credits to disappear, and bigger thugs to pay night time visits. It had taken a huge amount of time and resources, but he'd done it. He always gotten the upper hand and kept it with an iron grip. If Damien thought he was any less helpless on the outside, he would find out just how wrong he was.

Damien pulled his hand away and dropped a blank-faced SD card in Neal's lap. "This has an executable file in it. You're going to install it on Agent Burke's computer. Is that understood?"

Neil picked it up between two fingers. "I don't even think Burke's computer has an SD slot. Do you have something a little low-tech? Like a CD? A floppy disc, perhaps? Is it more than 3.2 meg?"

Damien looked at him coldly. "This isn't funny."

"Neither is Windows Millennium. Look, can I email it to him? He'd open a file if the subject line said I love you." He was lying, of course, Peter wasn't a Luddite, but he got a small thrill seeing the aggravation cross Damien's face.

"Just get it done. I wouldn't waste any time. If it's not in Peter's computer by the time the bug passes, we'll consider the deal broken." Damien said, and left him.

Neal sent a text message just after the door was closed. He waited for five minutes and stood up. His head still killed him, and the gown, even the one that came from a private room didn't close in the back. He went to his closet, confident that his suit would be waiting for him, but the small cupboard was empty but for the special kind of hangers that couldn't be removed. At over a thousand dollars a day, the least they could do was provide hangers that could be removed.

He saw Peter's hand in this. If Peter thought for one second that that was going to stop him, Peter was wrong. Barefoot and half naked, he walked out of the hospital room. It was late enough that the hospital was in a slower mode, and only a single orderly tried stop him. Neal smiled at him, feeling the strain on his bruised face, but it worked. By the time he walked out the main doors, the cab waited for him.

Moz was quick and had connections everywhere. The driver held up a hand-printed sign. Are you Neal?.

Neal nodded and slid into the backseat. Moz could work wonders given five minutes of prep time. It occurred to him that he didn't have his anklet on, but Peter would have to understand.

Moz waited for him at his place, pacing nervously. Neal frowned, afraid that the floors might creak, but Moz waved away the concern. From a stack of print-outs, he held up one that said,Where's the card?

Neal held it out. Moz took it from him and handed Neal three sheets of solid text, the first line being, It's very simple, all we have to do is-- but after that, Neal skimmed. He got cloning Peter's hard drive, but he had no idea how they could do that from here. When he looked up at Moz, Moz motioned to the rest of the stack and held out one finger. Neal took the first sheet.Of course we'll have to be at Peter's physical computer.

Neal went back to reading. When he got stumped, he picked up the next sheet, which explained what Moz was going to do in simple language. Eventually Neal gave up reading the small print and stuck to the idiot's guide. When he got to the sheet that said, Stop reading the cheat sheet and wait for me, he looked back up again.

The transfer to the USB key was almost done. Moz pulled it from the computer and glanced down to Neal's hospital gown. He motioned to the last sheet. There's a set of clothes for you on the bed..

Neal shrugged. Beggars couldn't exactly choose. It couldn't be worse than prison fare.

In fact, it was one of his own suits out of storage. He glanced to Moz, surprised, but Moz only shrugged. Neal wondered what emergency Moz had planned that Neal would show up needing a change of clothes, but thought it best not to pantomime the question. His body hurt to much to even think it.

Moz grabbed a stack of print-outs still on the printer, glanced at the top one, and shrugged. He passed it over to Neal. It was just a matter of time before you needed it.

*

Peter got the call just after midnight that Neal was AWOL again. He didn't know why he hadn't put the anklet back on when he had the chance. He finished shrugging on his coat, about to APB Neal's ass when he heard the soft scratches on his door. He opened it, furious, but relaxed when he saw who it was. Moz handed him a sheet of 8 by 11 paper. Be quiet. We're here to fix your computer. Also, Neal might need some Tylenol.

Neal looked even more worse for wear. The bruises were in full bloom on his face, his left eye constantly watered and he looked exhausted. Peter motioned them inside, turned the sheet over, and sprawled Why?

Another piece got thrust in his hands. Because his face hurts. And also, because Neal's supposed to set up a program on your computer. Moz shuffled some papers around and gave him a stack of print-outs. The printing on this one was much smaller. It's very simple, all we have to do is--

Moz stepped past him. Neal came into the entrance, took the first three sheets from him and folded them neatly. The remaining sheets were much easier to read. Neal shot him a trust melook and stepped past him as well.

By the time Moz had made it up to the computer, Peter had finished reading the cliff notes version. It made sense in a hypothetical way, at least he understood the quarantine bit and the scrubbers, but he had nothing on his computer, nothing at all. He didn't quite understand how hacking into to see the household budgets and his perfect score at free cell would interest whomever had taken Neal.

Moz handed him another sheet. You're not supposed to understand. It's a test to see if Neal can do it.

Peter took out his pen. Under it he wrote Can or would?

Moz shot him a look to say semantics didn't matter. Peter was just glad there wasn't a pre-written script for it. If Moz could read his mind he'd be really upset. Once the computer booted up, Moz put the USB key in and did...stuff from the DOS window. Peter tried to follow along, but really couldn't follow the blazing speed. Instead he went back down to the kitchen to get a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin, the best he could do. Neal took it gratefully and swallowed what seemed like a palm full down. When Peter looked back, his computer looked the same as before Moz started.

Moz opened notepad on the computer. All clear he typed. You won't notice a difference.

Peter nodded. Neal's face, through the bruises, paled, and he glanced to Peter. Peter nodded, and Neal disappeared out the door. A moment later he heard the bathroom door close. When he came back, he looked relieved. "All clear," he said, softly so as to not wake Elizabeth. "So to speak."

Peter stood. "Good. Now you can tell me what the hell you did to cause all this."

Neal stared at him. He still kept his voice down, however. "What did I do? What did you do? They weren't coming after me, Peter."

"I'm not the one with bruises on my face," Peter said.

"No, you're not. And do you know why that is, Peter?" Neal's voice rose a little on that last bit.

"Did you save the bug?" Moz whispered, cutting in.

Peter was glad for it. He didn't feel up to going another round with Neal. It would be like poking an already caged animal. He let go of his tightly held breath and Neal obviously swallowed what he was going to say. Instead he wrinkled his nose and turned to Moz. "Think about that for a second." His voice had dropped again to a whisper.

Moz did and pulled a face, too.

"The bug would have only told us it was transmitting," Peter said. "And not to where it was transmitting to to. But more importantly, how will they know it worked in time?" Peter asked, gesturing the computer.

"Didn't you read the sheets I gave you?"

Peter shook his head. Moz sighed. "The program was designed to connect to the internet and set a single pixel .jpeg to an email account."

"Can we trace that?"

"You could try, I imagine. But it was a yahoo account from Australia. I tried emailing them back, but the account's already been closed down. My guess if you track it down it will be from a John Smith at an internet cafe."

"So this was all a waste of time," Peter said, and rubbed his face.

"Well, not completely," Neal said. "They know I can be trusted to be their bitch."

"That begs the question then. What did they need you to be their bitch for, exactly? And why come after me?"

Neal shrugged. "I don't know, have you ever thought you could have put away some pretty powerful people with a lot of money and resources to do this by heading the white collar investigation unit?"

Peter rubbed his face again. "Do you know how many people like that I've put away in my career?"

"No," Neal said. "Only until 2005. Then I went to prison." Peter stared at him. Neal did a sort of shrug that moved the least amount of muscles possible. "What, you knew everything about me. I was just returning the favour."

 

"Well, if that's all, we should be going," Moz said. Neal went to follow Moz down the stairs when Peter caught his arm. "You should spend the night here. You still have a concussion."

"I'm fine," Neal protested. "Seriously, I just need to sleep."

"Have you seen the inside of a skull from someone who's bled out in their head? It stains the bone. Do you want to die with a stained skull?"

Neal rubbed his own face, only a lot more gingerly. "If it means sleeping right now, I'd put up with it."

"Yeah, that's not going to happen. Stay here, I'll be right back."

Neal sat down on the seat just vacated by Moz. He put his head down on the computer desk. Peter hoped that helped with some of the headache. He showed Moz out, still not trusting the little fiend despite what he'd just done. Moz didn't trust him either, and without Neal between them, they had nothing to say. Peter double locked the door behind him and came back up stairs. He took hold of Neal's arm. "Come on."

"Don't be stupid," Neal said. "You're not going to wake up every half an hour just to wake me up."

"I can and will."

"What about El?" Neal asked, trying to pull away. Maybe if he hadn't just had his brains rattled he would have had a chance, but as slow as his reflexes were, he didn't.

"She married me for better or worse. Come on."

He parked Neal out in the hall and went into the dark bedroom alone. El wasn't asleep. She'd even pulled on a dressing gown. "Neal's here," Peter whispered.

El looked past him to the hall. "What's wrong?"

"He and Moz had to do something with the computer. I'll read the small print tomorrow. But never mind that. He can't go home and sleep if he has a concussion."

"Sure," El said. "But he's sleeping on your side of the bed. The air mattress is in the hall."

Peter grabbed it and pumped it up as Neal swayed back and forth on his feet.

"Peter, I'm fine," Neal protested.

"Try saying that without slurring your words next time and I'll believe you," Peter said. "Down you go."

"If I had a dime," Neal muttered. The air mattress squeaked something awful as Neal lay down on it.

Neal gave back Peter's cell, and Peter resisted the urge to ask if it had been cloned, too. He didn't want to plant any seeds for the next time. They set the alarm to go off on vibrate and Peter put it under his pillow. The first few times it went off, he'd gently reach down beside the bed to where Neal slept on the mattress, but as the night went on and none of them got any sleep, he started to reach down and kick Neal. Gently, but there is only one thing that can really be done with a foot.

"Are you positive?" Peter asked, just after four in the morning.

"Most of the time," Neal said. "Positive about what?"

"That they were after me."

Peter heard the air mattress squeak as Neal turned onto his back. He heard the soft exhalation of pain, but Neal said nothing. "They made that very clear."

Peter exhaled. "I'm sorry."

"You should be," Neal said. "But you'll get over it."

"Just accept it," Peter said, glad that he had to keep his voice down to a whisper to keep all of the emotions he wanted to keep checked out of it.

"Don't beat yourself up over it," Neal said.

"Oh, ha-ha," Peter said.

"Admit it. You're smiling. I can hear it in your voice."

Peter was. Neal turned over onto his side, and Peter let him rest.

*

A week passed, then two. Neal's bruises faded and he didn't die from a brain bleed. His new cellphones, both the one the one he told Peter about and the one that he didn't, were top of the line and apparently couldn't be hacked. Eventually, he stopped startling when the phone rang. He didn't think ex-football player and Damien had forgotten about him, not by a long shot, but maybe they were playing the long con. The longer the better, Neal thought. He didn't want to do what really had to be done.

Peter's team stopped studying the tapes. Neal couldn't blame them. Other, more pressing cases came up, and Neal was fine. He didn't blame Peter. The Cadillac had been a dead end. Yes, a vehicle matching the description had driven by a week before, but not before and not after. The case dried to nothing. Neal spent his free time going through photos of pro-football teams over the past ten years, but saw nothing. He'd gone down from the pro-ranks to college bowls to high school champions, but Peter stopped him, citing the law of diminishing returns. Neal didn't actually think the law had any legal standing, but let it go.

It was another Sunday. The sun was hot, and Neal didn't even mind the ankle bracelet. The weight was oddly satisfying. His phone rang, the public one, and he scooped it up from his pocket. He smiled, about to answer it, when he saw nothing was on the display. It rang and rang, never going to voice mail. He finally pushed talk and held it to his ear.

"Not answering your phone isn't polite, Caffrey."

"Neither is kidnapping a fellow and beating his face to a pulp." A woman with a small child turned and stared. Neal couldn't force himself to smile even on pretense.

"This time we won't damage the merchandise if you just do what we say," Damien purred. The black Cadillac screeched to a halt beside him. So the lead wasn't as dead as Peter said it was. "Get in."

"Go to hell," Neal said.

"Get in or you'll be coming home to a corpse."

Neal kept his face blank. "You don't really want to do this." He reached for his phone though his jacket but stopped when he heard the unmistakable sound of a safety clicking off. Of all the sounds in the world that didn't involve the breaking of his own bones, Neal truly hated that sound the most. "I wouldn't call your FBI friend right now, even if it's just the panic button. Please keep your hands out by your sides, Neal, and join me."

Okay, that wasn't subtle on Neal's part. He got in, as ordered. He still had his tracker on at the very least.

"I know what you're thinking. But we're not going to leave your circle. Isn't that right?"

Neal leaned back in the seat. His face, which hadn't bothered him in a week, began to ache. He fought the need to rub it. It would just hurt more. "I'm not swallowing another bug. I can tell you that right now."

"You'll do exactly what I'll tell you," Damien said. "Or we'll just have a repeat of last month. Do you want to have a repeat of last month, Neal?"

Neal did not particularly care for a repeat of last month, if he was perfectly honest with himself. "What do you need done?" he asked.

"The same thing," Damien said. He dropped the new SD card into the seat beside Neal. "Only on Burke's work computer, this time."

"And what does this one do?"

"What we want it to."

"No."

"We'll start with June, let me tell you, but if you still refuse, we'll move to Burke's lovely lady. That was quite the 'do she put on. Where was it? Madison and 89th?"

Neal felt his face go cold. "Go near her again, I will kill you."

"Come now, Neal, who are you kidding. You don't get your hands dirty. And if El's unfortunate accident doesn't convince you, we'll take out Burke himself. We either remove him one way or another. Do you want that on your conscience? If you have a conscience, that is. And if you don't, who will handle you if Burke is dead?"

Neal closed his eyes. "Who will handle me when the program does what you want it to?" Neal asked.

"My boss offered you a deal. You'll be two thousand miles away. What would you care?"

"Good point," Neal said, and pocketed the program. "But no bugs."

"Like hell."

"Either I do it or I don't. And if I don't, you'll know. No bugs."

Damien's lip curled. He wanted it his way just because he could, Neal saw, but it would be a zero sum game. Damien shrugged. "No bugs."

The car stopped, and the door popped open. Neal hadn't even realized they'd just looped the block. It felt, stepping out into the bright sunlight, that it hadn't been more than five minutes in the back of the car. He walked back to Moz's place in a daze.

Moz didn't look surprised to see him. He started to hold yet another piece of paper, but Neal stopped him. "It's okay, Moz. I'm not bugged."

"You're not?" Moz said, sounding disappointed and tinny at the same time.

"No. You going to let me up or what?"

Moz buzzed him in. He handed Moz the card at the door. "I need to know what this does," he said.

Moz nodded and went to work. Neal helped himself to a beer. He cracked it, expecting Moz to have cracked the card at the same time, but Neal finished that beer, the one after that and the one after that before Moz even looked up. And that was just to adjust his glasses before going back to it. Neal switched to a glass of water between beers and still managed to drink two more bottles before Moz pushed his chair back. "You're not going to like it," he said, finally.

Neal, despite himself, was actually quite tipsy. He had a hard time believing he wouldn't like anything at that moment, but Moz's face was a cup of strong coffee to his buzz. Neal cleared his throat and stood. "Not like what?" he asked.

"The program. It's so much more than a back door. If it installs in Peter's work computer, I'm not even sure it can be closed."

"Can't we just do that cloning thing again?"

"Do you think if it was that simple I'd let you drink all my IPA?" Moz demanded.

"Probably not," Neal agreed.

Moz took off his glasses and rubbed the indents out of the bridge of his nose. "Look."

He sat back so that Neal could see the screen. The scans of the checks and money orders were grainy, hardly even admissible in court, but they were clearly made out to Peter. "Who's Anthony Wesko?"

"I told you you weren't going to like it. He's a prosecuting attorney. As far as I can tell, he and Peter worked together on over a dozen cases."

"Well, we need to speak to him."

"Yeah. Good luck with that. He's dead. Killed himself, apparently. The death was just this side of suspicious so they closed the case. Always taking the easy way out, cops, unless they're trying to prosecute the little guy."

"Moz, Moz, focus," Neal said. He looked at the files one more time. Any one could fake a personalized check, but the money orders looked familiar, like seeing artwork he'd done by himself when he was in grade school. He looked closer, an inch from the screen. "These could be poor copies of my copies," he said.

"You think?" Moz snapped. "They are poor copies of your copies. Burke was working your case as the same time as this one. He'd be screwed double if he goes down either for accepting bribes or working with you to frame a dead attorney."

"Well...damn."

Moz put his glasses back on. "Just...leave it with me. Maybe if I had a day, or even a week, I can get around the anti-cloning program, oh, but this time I have to worry about the Fed's firewall as well. Can you give me two weeks?"

"Peter doesn't have two weeks."

"Will it help to say I'm sure you'll make all new friends?" Moz asked, just a little bit too hopeful.

"June has even less time than Peter, Moz. And El's on that list too."

Moz sighed. "Damn. I liked her."

"Watch the past tense." Neal stood up, and the loft swayed gently. "Look, I'll sober up, and I'll deal with this."

"How?" Moz asked.

"I'll think of something," Neal said, and flashed Moz his most confident grin. It felt like a thousand tiny paper cuts.

*

Neal regretted the beers roughly half-way home. Not only because he suddenly had to piss like a race horse, but also because the alcoholic fuzz, when combined with the hot day, made his thoughts fragmented. He'd have the formation of a plan in his head like a perfect smoke ring, and then it would break apart in his brain so that he couldn't see either the work needed to pull it off or the carry through to get away with it. The harder he tried to hold it, the more it wafted away.

He made it to the entrance of the grand house, looking up to the camera to smile in case June was watching, and then felt something tug at the back of his skull. He looked from the entrance camera to the camera that took in the front of the house, and then came back down the stairs so that he could see the camera off the side. Peter had complained that after all the paperwork June had generated, there hadn't been anything illegal on the tapes at all. Just a bunch of old men, coming and going from the big house.

But not just any old men. Neal had met them all in passing. He had had to pass the same test with June's friends that June had had to pass with Peter. Neal liked the old guard, with their leathery skin and hair as white as arctic foxes. Only the very good survived to be very old. The men had dark liver spots across their cheeks and hands but they were crafty. They'd come over, one at a time or in small groups for some trumped up reason. Each one eyed Neal up coolly. They'd all realized that he was harmless, to June at least, and let him be. Neal wasn't fooled for an instant that they couldn't laugh one second and cut his throat the next.

June had beefed up security since Damien had let himself in, but anyone could get got, anywhere. Anyone. Including Damien. Anywhere. Including in a grand dame's house. He let himself into the house and felt like whistling for the first time in weeks.

June came out to see what was making the choking noise. Neal hadn't ever thought about just how many muscles it actually took to whistle. He took her hand, and told her all about the plan. She nodded, once, at the end, carefully, and then went off to make a phone call or two. Neal knew that this would never be spoken of again, to anyone, but he was okay with that.

Two days passed before Damien attempted to call Neal again. He and Peter were working on an embezzlement case late that Tuesday night, and when his phone rang, Neal opened and closed the phone twice before Peter even noticed the ringing phone had been Neal's. "Hot date?" he asked, with just a little touch of annoyance in his voice.

"Sort of," Neal said. "It can wait. One of the EMT's from the other night managed to see through the massive facial hemorrhaging to the real me, but I don't think it will work out between us."

"Oh?" Peter asked. "Which EMT?"

"Well, first one, then the other. I try not to date people who work together. It's my thing."

"Well, can you ask them to call outside of business hours, please?" Peter asked.

"It's ten o'clock at night, Peter," Neal pointed out. His phone rang again, but this time it was his unlisted number. He sighed, pushing back from his chair. "I really need to take this."

Peter waved him off. "Go. Detangle."

"Will do." Neal stood up and took the call even before he left the glassed-in board room. He kept his head down until he cleared the last of the glass wall. Peter had never told him he could read lips, but he didn't put it past the man, either. "Look," Neal said, instead of a hello. "You're talking about hacking into a firewall that won't let a program just execute itself," he said. "I'm working on it, but you've got to give me more time."

"There is no more time," Damien said. "I don't think it's a time issue, I think it's a motivational one. I think we need to motivate you, Neal."

"I told you, I'm working on it. A week, maybe two. I'm doing it, all right?"

"Don't feel so bad. You just met the lady. I'm sure you'll feel even more motivated when Mrs. Burke is next in line."

"Damien, please. You don't want to do this," Neal said. "Believe me. You don't--"

And Neal was talking to dead air. "Want to do this," he finished.

His second call took even less time and he was back at Peter's side, working until the wee hours. A dozen times, Neal opened his mouth to tell Peter what was going down, and each time he closed his mouth. He had June's assurances that her...friends would have no trouble extracting the name and address of Mr. Ex-Football and then paying him the same sort of visit they were planning for Damien. Peter wouldn't be able to break Damien that quickly, not in a million years. And Mr. Ex-Football didn't seem the type to stop trying should a tool like Damien break. It had to happen, and it had to happen tonight. A little part of Neal, the old Neal, still wanted revenge for getting his face smashed in, he wasn't going to lie. Both old and new Neal believed that no one threatened his friends.

That night, when he finally got home, the light to the dining room was still on. Neal didn't make a sound as he crept to the doorway, but it was only June, sitting at the head of the table. Beside her, with an elegant silver dome, was a place setting just waiting for him. A bottle of 1982 Pol Roger Extra Cuvee de Reserve Champagne waited in the ice bucket, though most of the ice had already melted. "Very nice."

"Come dine with me," June said.

Neal sat. He lifted off the dome, and there wasn't much on the plate besides a porterhouse the size of his face. He could live with that. "That little matter has been settled," June said. She motioned to the bottle and he stood to take the foil off. He cracked it open with just a sigh and a single whiff of vapor, and poured them both a healthy glass. They deserved it.

"Did Damien say why? Why me? Why Peter?"

"Revenge. What other reason is there?" June asked. Neal lifted his glass in a silent toast, and she returned the gesture. June would understand where Peter or even Moz never could. To Peter, vengeance was no reason at all for murder. For Moz, the concept was about as foreign as that of the opposite sex. Or even the same sex. Neal wasn't exactly sure with Moz, sometimes. Money and sex were crimes of passion, but vengeance took time and planning. "Peter put Mr. Football away," Neal hazarded. He would never have guessed that Mr. Football had done time. "And he started his little game with the man who had actually prosecuted him?"

"I suppose. But not him. His father, who died in prison. But don't worry. Damien's employer has been taken care of as well."

Neal nodded. He'd just been another tool, then, like Damien. He took another sip of the champagne. It really was excellent. He'd spent far too many days in prison to let a little thing like murder spoil his appetite for the good things. "No one can know, June."

"No one will know. The tapes are already erased, and I was at a charity dinner all night. You were in a Federal building, and you have the GPS tracker to prove it."

"Thank you, June."

June stood up. Neal stood up as well, because that was just what you did. She put her hand on his shoulder. "Think nothing of it, dear boy. Please enjoy your supper. It's been a long day for me and I am suddenly exhausted."

Neal stayed standing until she had left the room, then finished what he could of the steak. He went to his bed upstairs alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel: [Pure Speculation](http://archiveofourown.org/works/264239)


End file.
